


don't need to ask it

by lorelaislatte



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, One Shot, Soft Villanelle - Freeform, like very very soft villanelle, the coffeeshop au every fandom needs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:07:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24765898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorelaislatte/pseuds/lorelaislatte
Summary: Elena is stocktaking out the back, leaving Eve with an old newspaper a customer had left behind and an empty café, when the bell above the door jingles, catching her attention. In walks a woman. She’s wearing some brash tartan outfit with a green fluffy trim, she’s the most beautiful person Eve has ever seen, and when she gives her name as Jackie Kennedy, Eve slightly wants to throat-punch her.AKA the "you come here every day and i'm definitely into you but it's really difficult when you point blank refuse to tell me what your fucking name is" au nobody asked for but everybody needs.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 80
Kudos: 604





	don't need to ask it

**Author's Note:**

> i know that by nature this is potentially going to feel a little out of character as it’s such a mundane setting for these two, but i read this idea somewhere on tumblr like half a decade ago and it’s stuck with me ever since. this is also the softest villanelle i could have written, so book loyalists, i’m sorry. killing eve au fics are surprisingly difficult to write - comments are so, so appreciated. i’m not above begging.
> 
> title from sammy rae's "jackie onassis" which i've listened to on repeat almost the whole time i've been writing this.

Eve is _good_ at her job.

Yeah, alright, with a Cambridge degree and a handful of years under Carolyn Martens she could be in some cushy government role by now, spending her days in a Chelsea apartment with thirty subordinates and a view of the city. But eighteen years of office work in Information and Records for the House of Commons was more than enough to know she is _never_ going to be able to live to her retirement in the same routine. Endless paperwork, unpaid overtime, the fucking _drag_ of knowing the highlight of her day was her twenty minute coffee break. What a piss-take, to be good at something you hate.

She likes to think there’s a version of her somewhere with a much more exciting time of it. Some kind of spy work, travelling everywhere, fluent in three languages and with a sense of danger about her. Or, perhaps, she’d be an astronaut, as nine year old her was so convinced she’d be. Working in space still sounds cool. She’d have been good at it. But the idea of specialising in engineering and computer science sounded like her own special brand of hell, so that was that.

Instead, she’s a forty one year old divorcee with a studio flat who makes about the same in a month as the price of a Burberry handbag. Not quite the success story her lecturers had hoped she’d be.

But Eve is fine. She likes the changing days, she likes her coworkers - even if she does want to hold Hugo’s hand under the steamer every time he gives yet another free coffee to someone he fancies - and she’s good at it. Her regular customers feel like friends, her hours are more flexible, she reckons the staff as a collective make the best pub quiz team she’s ever had. She finally gets to finish when her rota says she’s finishing, even if a close does mean she’s there a bit later than she’d strictly enjoy. It’s not a bad gig, all things considered.

She used to dread the busy days in her old job. It meant stress, file after file, Excel sheet after Excel sheet, all with Carolyn’s firm monotone telling her that _really, Eve, you’ve been at this far too long to be so hot and bothered._ Now, though, it’s the quiet days she hates. It’s arguably the only problem with having a solid team - there’s never really a lot to do. Kenny keeps the till and their office computer up to date, Elena is a wizard with the machines, even Hugo can be persuaded to clear the outside pretty easily (Eve is fairly sure that has more to do with the fact that his phone reception is a bit better out there, but she keeps that to herself). Sometimes Bill pops in, her last and fondest link with her old life, and she takes an hour to sit and chat with him, outside in the sun. Mostly, she chats with whoever else is working and prays for something interesting to happen. Not that it ever does. 

Not until one sunny Wednesday morning, when her prayers get somewhat unusually answered. 

Elena is stocktaking out the back, leaving Eve with an old newspaper a customer had left behind and an empty café, when the bell above the door jingles, catching her attention. In walks a woman. She’s wearing some brash tartan outfit with a green fluffy trim, she’s the most beautiful person Eve has ever seen, and when she gives her name as _Jackie Kennedy,_ Eve slightly wants to throat-punch her.

It’s the one thing about the job that gets her. The people who think they’re hilariously original with the fake-name gag. _Beyoncé. Tom Hanks. Kim Jong Un. Luke Skywalker._ Kenny and Elena take it in their stride, giving each customer who thinks they’re the next Jerry Seinfeld a perfunctory laugh, and Hugo of course is ever the charmer. Eve lets herself get away with a tight-pressed smile as she swiftly rings up their total, then usually busies herself doing something else to avoid further conversation. 

“Jackie Kennedy. Final answer?”

“I can choose another First Lady, if you’d prefer. Must I be the current one? Terrible wardrobe.”

“Terrible woman,” Eve mutters, scrawling _Eleanor Roosevelt_ on the cup in defiance as she hands it to Hugo. “Anything else?”

Not Jackie Kennedy looks her up and down, eyes settling on her glittery name-tag, something extraordinarily out of character for Eve, but that had been a present from Bill’s baby daughter last Christmas. “No thank you, Eve. Just the coffee will do. To go, please.”

Well, at least she’s polite, if a bit up herself. Elena comes out of the back just as Hugo finishes up, handing Not Jackie Kennedy her order with a dazzling smile that gets entirely ignored. Elena needs help in the back, and Eve starts to tie her hair up, looking away from Not Jackie with a somewhat strained smile and instead glancing down at Elena’s fucked-up stock sheet. The bell above the door jingles again, and Not Jackie is about to disappear, when she turns back to the counter, staring at Eve with a quiet intensity. 

“Wear it down. It looks good.”

And with that, she’s gone. 

*

A week goes by, and Eve is _just_ starting to forget about the strange woman (with no help from Elena, who is _relentless)._ Bill has of course been filled in on all the details - “you should have seen her face after she said the hair thing. I swear, I’ve never seen Eve look so flattered in her _life_ ” - and has been trying to get more details out of her, to little avail.

It was just a compliment. Eve doesn’t consider herself particularly gorgeous, but she’s confident enough in herself to know she’s far above hanging on to the vaguely kind words of an oddly-dressed stranger. Even if she hasn’t stopped replaying them since.

Besides, with her impending divorce reaching its final stages, pretty customers should be the last thing on her mind. She doesn’t need some romantic teenage fantasy - if that was what she wanted, she’d have spent her twenties doing much more exciting things than marrying her neighbour and dedicating her Saturday evenings to his bridge club. Niko wasn’t a bad person, she certainly couldn’t accuse him of not trying, but she’d found herself less and less able to deal with the sheer fucking _boredom_ of it all. His not-so-subtle suggestions over the past few years that they drop everything and move to a farm - a fucking _farm_ \- hadn’t exactly helped. He’d just never really understood her in the way she wanted him to, and when he started accusing her of using work to avoid him, it’d finally been the last straw. Well, that, and the fact that she was pretty certain he’d started sleeping with his colleague. That hadn’t helped either. 

She’s on with Kenny today, fortunately, giving her a break from Elena and Hugo’s endless commentary. She loves them, she really does, but something about Kenny’s quiet demeanour is exactly what she needs. She’d been late to work in the morning, something that always sets her off on the wrong foot, and it seems as if everyone else in New Malden was feeling the same. Every single person so far has been brusque and irritable, and for once, the quiet period is a welcome change. Eve picks up her paper after sliding Kenny a hot chocolate - he’d had a hell of an earful from an angry customer after getting the size of her drink wrong, and while she knows he’s made of strong stuff, it’s never a nice start to the day.

“Hello, Eve.”

She’s snapped out of her article by _her._

She’s wearing a blue chiffon blouse in a far cry from her extravagant outfit from the last time. Her hair is tied back again, and fine, maybe Eve stares a little too long at her accentuated jawline while she fumbles with the newspaper. But it’s just curiosity. Eve does _not_ get schoolgirl crushes. 

“Are you okay? You look a little starstruck.”

“No, I- sorry, just reading. Iced mocha again?”

Mystery Woman looks nothing short of thrilled that she’d remembered. “Yes, extra cream please.”

“And the name?”

“Radclyffe Hall.”

Eve sighs, scribbling it on and passing the cup to Kenny, knowing full well she could take the time to make it herself. Something in her wants to keep this conversation going. “An author, this time?”

“I am a queer writer, she was a queer writer. Besides-” Not Radclyffe Hall gestures to the empty café. “-looks like we have our own well of loneliness today.”

Eve groans at that. “Christ, that was _awful._ Hope you’re not a comedian too.”

“Eve, you wound me,” Not Radclyffe says, clutching a hand to her heart with a dramatic flourish. “I am hilarious. And entertaining.”

Despite her best wishes, Eve can’t help smiling. “You sure are something. Are you going to tell me your real name?”

Not Radclyffe squints at her suspiciously, her eyes never leaving Eve’s, even when she reaches over to take her drink from Kenny. “Maybe one day. But for now I am a woman of mystery.”

*

“Eve! As much coffee as you can fit in the cup please. I have a deadline today.”

Eve is in the middle of another transaction and shoots her a pointed look, giving her most apologetic smile to her current customer, who glances at Mystery Woman nervously. As if her loud entrance wasn’t enough, her all-red ensemble is bright and bold against the pale tones of the café walls. Eve suddenly finds herself grateful for her irritable mood - it stops her noticing the way her waist is cinched in, or how the neckline neatly accentuates her collarbone. Not that she’d have noticed anyway. Definitely not.

“There’s a queue, Blondie. Wait your turn.”

Not Blondie looks momentarily affronted, standing behind another customer and huffing, standing just close enough to them to be uncomfortable. The queue is almost out the door and it’s clear she’s pissed at the long wait. Eve sighs, muttering another apology as she makes her way through orders. It’s the bad kind of busy, she’s barely had time to speak to Hugo all day, and the summer heat certainly isn’t helping with her stress levels. She can feel a pair of eyes on her as she moves through orders, burning into the top of her head, and she snaps her head up just in time to see Not Blondie turn and flounce through the door. _Fuck you too then,_ Eve thinks, shaking off the pang of rejection that’s rapidly trying to claw its way in and getting back to her current order.

She takes a second to check Hugo is coping alright with the sudden influx - he’s capable, but he looks flustered. Truthfully, she’d prefer to have Elena with her - the two of them have always been a seamless team - but Hugo is good for morale, keeping his charming tone with everyone no matter how little he gets back, and Eve appreciates it. 

Finally, _finally,_ the lunch rush is over, and Eve slumps against the counter. “Get yourself a donut, you’ve earned it,” she tells Hugo, who looks delighted at the prospect. Eve isn’t officially his senior, doesn’t really have the authority to let him, but fuck it, she’ll just bluff her closing stock check and hope nobody asks about it. She definitely does not get paid enough to care too much.

Hugo asks to take ten minutes out the back and she nods.

Eve looks up to see Not Blondie walking in, looking entirely unbothered by Eve’s lack of reaction. She’s carrying a paper bag in one hand, which she puts on the counter and slides over to Eve. “Here. For you.”

Eve frowns, opening the bag to see a purple candle and a fucking _colouring book_ (aptly titled ‘Calm the Fuck Down’, promising pages of _sweary fun._ Wonderful). “Is this - what _is_ this?”

Not Blondie shrugs. “You looked stressed. Lavender is good for stress. Or, that’s what Konstantin says when he’s trying to piss me off. And apparently a book is a nicer way to tell people what they need to hear.”

“Konstantin?”

“My boss.” 

“Right.”

“You know, the usual response to someone getting you a gift is a thank you.”

Eve looks at her, feeling her annoyance wash right back over her. “I didn’t ask you to. You’re the one who came in the door kicking and screaming at the busiest time of the day.”

“I also left to find you something to make you feel better. I am trying to be nice to you, Eve, not be snapped at. I don’t like you that much.”

Eve sighs, closing her eyes. “Okay. Alright, I’m sorry. I just - I don’t know, usually the midday rush is fine, but you’re, well, you’re a _shit_ when you want to be. I just didn’t need it, not today.”

“Has something happened?” She gestures to Eve’s hand. “I see you aren’t wearing your wedding ring today.”

“I don’t even know your name, I hardly think you need to know the finer details of my divorce.”

“Even so, you can talk to me. I am an excellent listener.” Not Blondie had begun resting her hand on top of Eve’s, pulling it back to gesture at the book. “And now, when you colour in the word _shit,_ you can think of me. It is a gift that keeps on giving.”

Eve cracks a smile at her, trying hard to ignore the tingling sensation in her hand and stomach. “It was finalised this morning. I’m fine, it’s not a bad thing, but, I don’t know. It’s still a big change.”

“Well, now you can go home and angrily scribble over every word that makes you think of him. A win-win. I really am an excellent gift-giver.” Not Blondie gives her a lopsided smile, and Eve practically melts, just in time for Hugo to walk back in and immediately ruin the atmosphere. “Eve, did you want me to - _oh._ Hello again.”

“You have a chocolate stain on your chin that I do not think is meant to be there.”

Eve suppresses a laugh at Hugo’s surprised look, practically spinning on his heel back to the break room. “You see why I say you’re a _shit?_ ”

Not Blondie looks her up and down, shrugging, before looking at her watch. “Can I have my coffee now that I have cheered you up? I have to get back to work.”

“Fine. Since you asked nicely. Should I even bother asking for a name?”

“Mother Teresa.”

“Obviously not, then.”

*

Eve can _feel_ Elena’s visceral excitement as the bell rings to signify someone walking in. Her back is turned, but Eve knows exactly who it is, spinning on her heel and immediately sliding back to the counter. “Same as always?” she asks, already writing the order on the side. “What’s the name?”

“Hello, Eve.” The woman looks her up and down, and Eve feels herself heating up under her careful stare. “Make it for Anna Politkovskaya.”

Eve half-frowns, the Sharpie hovering above the cup. “Anna Polit- the journalist?”

“Yes, it’s me, back from the grave.” Blunt as ever.

Eve can’t force her laugh back down, even with Elena’s eyes flitting wildly between her and Not Anna Politkovskaya. “That’s a niche one. But I can’t spell it, so Anna will have to do.”

Something flashes across Not Anna’s face, gone as soon as it had arrived. “No, just Google it. You will ruin my joke, Eve.”

“Your joke?”

“I have a meeting with my boss today to review an article he didn’t like.”

Elena chokes next to Eve, excusing herself to start making the order, though she seems to be doing a lot more laughing than pouring, her shoulders creasing forwards. Eve can’t stop her own smile forming. “Oh, that’s _dark._ ”

Not Anna grins brightly at her. “Funny, no? My boss is Russian, I am Russian, I think it’ll be a hit.”

Eve grasps that new information and holds it to her chest. _Russian. Journalist._ The former should have been obvious from the accent, really, but she feels a small victory at getting two real things out of her. “Russia, huh?” she offers, seeing how much she can draw out before Not Anna’s order is done. “Whereabouts?”

“Nowhere you’d know. A shitty little village in the south west corner. _Kolomytsevo_ -“ her accent curls deliciously around the word, and Eve is suddenly incredibly aware of her own drawly American, “but I tell people Moscow. Otherwise they start lecturing me on the Ukraine border, as if I decided to put it there.” 

“Do you miss it?”

“Not really.” Not Anna shrugs, turning to take her coffee from Elena, who has been silently watching their whole encounter. Not Anna turns back to Eve. “I won a dung throwing contest there once. And I sang a lot of Elton John.” She turns to go, pausing momentarily as a second thought. “You will be here tomorrow?”

Elena practically claps her hands in glee. Eve ignores her. “Uh, actually, it’s my day off tomorrow. But Elena will be here. And Kenny.”

“I should come back on Thursday then?”

“Won’t you want your coffee?”

A smirk. “I don’t come for the coffee, Eve.”

And with that, she sweeps out, leaving a somewhat stunned Eve in her wake to deal with Elena’s delighted laughter.

*

After a ten-day streak, Eve’s day off has never felt this welcome. 

She usually likes to take her time, have a proper lie in, make herself a nice breakfast. It’s rare for her to have even the morning off, and the chance to spoil herself doesn’t roll around anywhere near as often as she wishes it would. 

Living with Niko meant never having that time - his alarm always woke her in the mornings, he’d always be home before she was, he’d always have the weekends off, even when he had things to work on he was always _there,_ never picking up on Eve’s gentle hinting that she needed a bit of time to herself. She’d told him directly, once, and the look she got in return had ensured that was the end of that. The phrase ‘wounded puppy’ had never been so apt, and she’d felt awful. But _God,_ there’s very little Eve hates more in the world than being smothered. Her newly-found quiet time had been the best part of living alone.

She’s halfway through her pancakes when her phone suddenly erupts.

| Hugo: _Just know it was Elena, not me._

| Elena: _INCOMING I’M SORRY YOU’LL THANK ME LATER_

 _|_ Elena: _ALSO BILL WANTS TO MEET HER_

Eve barely has time to register what’s happening before the fourth text arrives.

| Unknown Number: _Hello, Eve._

 _|_ Unknown Number: _Elena gave me your number._

She knows immediately who it is. She wants to be annoyed that her colleagues are apparently giving out her contact details now, but the sudden fluttering in her chest contradicts her. Had she gone in for her coffee after all? Or did she go specifically to find out how to contact Eve? Try as she might to pretend she isn’t bothered, Eve desperately hopes it’s the second one.

| Eve: _Hi! I take it Elena was all too keen to pass that information on._

| Unknown Number: _Yes, she did seem happy that I asked. She said it was your pub quiz tonight. She also said I’d be welcome but I didn’t want to just show up. I would like to see you, but if you’d rather I didn’t, well, no promises._

 _Happy that I asked. I would like to see you._ Eve feels like a teenager again.

 _|_ Eve: _No, that’s fine. I’d like to see you too. 7:30 outside The Royal Oak, it’s on Coombe Road, just down from the station._

 _|_ Unknown Number: _Okay, I will be there. Is Hugo coming?_

 _|_ Eve: _Yes, so are Elena and Kenny. My friend Bill is hosting it. Why Hugo?_

| Unknown Number: _He is annoying. But for you, I will try. See you tonight, Eve._

 _|_ Eve: _What name should I save your number under?_

 _|_ Unknown Number: _Debbie Harry._

*

Eve is pacing outside the pub at precisely 7:13, all too aware that lipstick and a dress was significantly more effort than she’d ever put in before. The quiz didn’t even start until eight. She’s got her hair down, loose and fluffy over her shoulders, having decided that fuck it, if she’s going to try and get Not Debbie Harry here early enough to have some alone time with her, she may as well put some effort in. Several weeks of her friends going buck wild over Eve’s model girlfriend, as they’ve affectionately nicknamed her, and she could at least give them something to really talk about.

There’s an increasing chance she’s having a mid-life crisis, but it’s fine.

Not Debbie shows up at seven thirty on the dot, because of course she does. Eve would have felt a sense of smugness at the fact that they’re just as dressed up as each other if she wasn’t too busy trying to pick her jaw up off the floor. 

_She’s in a fucking tailored suit._

Jesus. Now Eve’s glad she got her to come a little early. She’d have had a stroke if Elena was there to tease her. “Wow.”

Not Debbie gives her a proud smile in return, eyeing her up and down appreciatively. “Thank you. You are very beautiful, Eve. Shall we?”

Eve finds herself _blushing,_ for fucks sake. “Uh, sure. Yeah. There’s a booth reserved for us inside.” She falls silent again as Not Debbie Harry holds the door open for her, placing a hand gently on the small of her back to guide her. Eve’s stomach just about drops through the floor. “What’s your drink?”

“Whatever you recommend. Nothing too dry. Is the table under your name?”

“Polastri, yeah. Meet you there in a minute.”

She watches the other woman locate the booth as she orders, mentally thanking herself for agreeing to let Bill drag her on a gin-tasting evening a few years back. Tanqueray for her, Hendricks Midsummer for Blondie. If her coffee orders are anything to go by, she’ll appreciate something a little bit sweeter. Balancing a glass in each hand, she makes her way over, sitting opposite Not Debbie and sliding her drink over. “It’s the best gin in Britain, apparently,” Eve tells her, clinking their glasses together. Not Debbie takes a sip, nodding in approval, before setting her glass down and regarding Eve in silence for a moment, clearly considering her next words. 

“Oksana Astankova.”

Eve gulps down her gin somewhat unceremoniously. “Sorry?”

“Oksana. That’s my name.”

“Oh.” 

Oksana nudges her foot. “I thought you’d be a little more relieved to know. Or do you not believe me? I have an ID in my pocket.”

Eve smiles back at her. “Oksana. I like it. Suits you.” 

Her smile is matched immediately. 

“So, Eve Polastri. Are you Polish?”

“No, my husband is. Ex-husband, I mean. I know all that is done now, but I guess when you have a particular name for twelve years, you get somewhat used to it.” Oksana nods at that, and Eve doesn’t miss the way her lips twitch up when she refers to Niko as her ex. She continues under Oksana’s encouraging gaze. “Korean parents, American upbringing. I moved here for college. Connecticut was fine, my mom is still out there, I try and visit when I can, but we aren’t that close. I fancied a change of scenery, I guess. Something a little different.”

Oksana perks up a little at that revelation. “What did you study?”

“Economics at Cambridge.”

“Wow. That doesn’t seem very…you.”

“None taken.”

Oksana kicks her gently under the table. “That’s not what I meant. You’re obviously intelligent. I just can’t imagine you doing something so...monotonous. Normal.”

Eve breaks her gaze at that, suddenly finding Oksana’s eyes too intense. “Well, as I said, Korean parents. I liked it. Hated the desk jobs that came after it, but I don’t regret it. Plus, it’s not like working in a café is the most exciting job in the world, but I enjoy it, and it’s better than moving back to the States. What about you?”

She’s met with a shrug. “A bit of everything. I studied in St Petersburg, but I did my masters in Paris, then moved here. London is an ugly city, but the jobs were here, and the money is good.”

“You’re a journalist?”

“Mm. I cover political crime, mostly. Assassinations, scandals,” her eyes gleam, “the fun stuff. I get to travel a fair bit, it pays well, they usually let me work alone, which I prefer. I studied languages, but I don’t know if I could have stuck with translation. I’m like you. I can deal with the boring bits, but I have to have the fun bits too, does that make sense?”

The _I’m like you_ feels a little loaded, but Eve doesn’t have time to question it before her friends descend on them, their delight at the fact she isn’t alone so glaringly obvious she could strangle them all. 

“Eve! Haven’t seen you this dressed up since Carolyn’s New Year party. And this must be-“ Bill stops short, realising he has no idea how to finish that sentence. Oksana stands to introduce herself, and Eve suddenly realises she can’t breathe. Suddenly realises how important it is that Bill likes her. 

But her panic is soon over as introductions are properly made. Elena predictably slides right next to Oksana, immediately asking about where she got her suit from, leaving Eve to say hello to Kenny and Hugo. Bill sits diagonally opposite her, next to Elena, and quietly leans over while Oksana is occupied. “ _N_ _ow_ I get it. She’s _gorgeous_.”

Eve swats him, pretending not to notice Hugo’s nod of agreement as he joins Oksana and Elena’s conversation, but something warm settles inside her. Oksana _fits_. They all like her. Kenny looks a bit nervous, but it’s nothing a few pints won’t fix. 

And as Oksana’s eyes drift back to meet hers with a warm smile, she smiles back. _This could really work._

*

They come in third, helped by Oksana’s knowledge of current affairs and significantly impeded by Hugo’s lack of knowledge of literature. Eve is pleasantly tipsy, and at some point Oksana’s foot has come to gently nudge against hers, despite the other woman not looking up from the conversation going on around them. Eve knows she’s being quiet, has spent most of her evening staring at blonde hair and delicate features, and is hoping beyond hope that her friends are too equally fascinated to give her too much of a hard time about it. She just can’t stop _wondering_.

She knows she’s attracted to women. She knows she’s attracted to Oksana. She knows her friends can see it, her fucking customers can see it, Oksana can probably see it - she’s definitely arrogant enough. She knows Oksana is at the very least _interested_ in her, on some level. Eve just can’t quite process the possibility of having some kind of involvement.

Christ, they haven’t even been alone together for more than half an hour and she’s already thinking about the future. The weight of her assumption alone is enough for her to squeeze her way out of the booth for another gin, Bill’s footsteps audible behind her.

“You’ll have married her by next year.”

“Hardly. I think I’ve had enough marriage for the foreseeable.”

Bill gestures to the bartender for another pint, turning to look at Eve expectantly. “You’ll be living with her then, at the very least. I’ve known you fourteen long years, Polastri. I’ve _never_ seen you like this.” Eve opens her mouth to reply, but Bill doesn’t let her. “I don’t blame you. She’s stunning. And she’s clearly into you too.”

Eve glances back at the table. Kenny’s got a deck of cards out, and Oksana is biting on her bottom lip in concentration, brows furrowed as she places a card down on the pile, clearly knocking Hugo out of the game as she does so, judging by the way he throws his cards down in a huff. Elena grins over at her and even Kenny has settled right in, murmuring something that looks like ‘nice move’ _._ Oksana laughs, and she’s _radiant._

If Bill was anybody else in the world she’d deny the obvious, laugh it off and return to her seat. But he knows her far too well for that. And watching Oksana so seamlessly fit into their little group makes Eve’s heart ache in a familiar way. 

“You don’t even need to confirm it, Eve. You’re painfully transparent.”

“Please. She’s what, twenty eight? If that?”

“And you’re forty one, and gorgeous, and you’ve got nothing to lose.”

Bill heads back to the table, leaving her to mull that comment over for a second. Just as he sits down, Oksana looks up, searching for Eve and greeting her with the softest smile Eve has ever seen as they make eye contact. 

She’s _fucked._

*

The evening wraps up after far too many drinks and the most laughter Eve can remember for quite some time now. Oksana is charming and entertaining and everything Eve secretly knew she was, and it’s clear that this isn’t going to be the last time she’s invited to their meetups. She’s walking Oksana back to the station, even though it’s in the opposite direction to her flat, letting their arms brush just on the side of too-often to be an accident. The silence is companionable, and by the time they reach the station entrance, their hands are entwined, the feeling so natural that Eve doesn’t even know who initiated. The board shows the next train leaves in fifty five minutes - the curse of zone four, Eve thinks. 

“Christ, sorry, I didn’t realise it was so late. Are you going to be able to get back okay? Where do you live?”

“Hoxton. It’s fine, I can get a cab.”

Eve stops dead. “Sorry, you live in _Hoxton?_ And you come all the way _here_ for a crap version of Starbucks?”

Oksana stops, breaking the grip of their hands to turn to face Eve head-on. “It’s good coffee. And I already told you, that isn’t what I come for.”

Eve just stares at her. 

“My office is in Richmond, if that makes you feel better?”

“That’s still what, half an hour on a good day?”

“I like to see you.”

Eve stares up at her, dark brown eyes meeting hazel as Oksana takes a step towards her, and Eve knows full well that any semblance of being in control she had has just gone flying out the door. Fuck it, then. _Nothing to lose_.

“I like to see you too. A lot.”

And then Oksana is kissing her, and oh, this is the best thing that’s happened to her in _years._

She’s soft and warm and Eve doesn’t think about the cold, or the time, or the fact that she’s opening the café in approximately seven hours. She doesn’t think about the draft, about the stare of the TfL staff by the kiosk, doesn’t even register another tired Londoner muttering something derogatory as he pushes past them. It’s just gentle hands in her hair, the whisper-soft moan of Oksana as Eve’s hands make their way around her waist, expensive perfume, the knowledge that Oksana _wants_ her, wants her just as much as Eve wants Oksana.

“Fuck the cab. Come back to mine.”

“Thought you’d never offer.”

*

Waking up with Oksana curled into her side is a special kind of heaven.

Cooking her a haphazard breakfast feels more like a joy than cooking her own has ever been.

Walking to work with Oksana cracking jokes about the fact that Eve owns eight turtlenecks is the best morning she could ask for.

Oksana kissing her goodbye at the door of the café with a promise that she’ll come back at lunchtime puts Eve in the most elated mood she’s ever worked a shift in.

The look on Elena’s face later that day as Oksana bounces through the door in one of Eve’s shirts and kisses Eve square on the lips before she’s even said hello is the funniest thing Eve has ever seen. 

She can’t fucking _wait_ for it to happen again.

And when Bill is helping her move her boxes into the flat she’s renting with Oksana just a few months later, she thinks back to their conversation in the pub, and she knows for a fact that the universe has never been more on anyone's side than it has on hers. Oksana wraps her arms around her from behind, murmuring to Eve that she’s already cleared space for her books in their living room, kissing her hair as Eve leans back into her, eyes closed.

Fuck the cushy job and the Chelsea penthouse. 

She’s doing just fine.


End file.
